


Letters from the Sky

by Peapods



Series: To A New and Shiny Place [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Even Badass Boffins Get the Blues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is, at heart, a professional. But sometimes he wonders what he would tell the little voice in his ear if it asked for his last words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters from the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at the pairing and I'm not entirely sure about Q's character, but we'll see. This is not as dire as it sounds. Just a little one shot about death, adrenaline, and professionalism

James wonders if the stoicism, the stiff upper lip, and sarcasm are all the products of a specc-y youth, weapons for the too small and too smart. The newest Q is _very_ young for his position, but even with the Silva breach--investigations yielded no official blame to Q himself (nothing he hadn’t already chastised himself thoroughly for) but to the rather deplorable state of MI6’s “secure” network--it is obvious to see why he was promoted so quickly.

He does not panic.

He is taken by a Ukrainian terrorist group, something with Russian backing, and when Bond forces his way to Q’s location with a gun and a rather judicious application of force, he finds the young man relaxed in his bonds with a far-off look on his face. When the clean-up team arrives, he asks one of them for a tablet and proceeds to rattle off an idea on how to weaponize bobby pins.

He does not mind the loss of technology.

Bond loses his gun on nearly every mission and on every new mission, Q presents him with another. They are never fanciful. Q is economical with his improvements and has enough idea of what a Double-oh can do with a biro and a length of rope that he does not waste his time with poisons or gases or explosives. Rather, like with the palm print, he designs his firearms for the very particular habits of Double-ohs. He never begrudges them another gun.

He is capable of sending a man to his death.

Schultz is one of their best field tech operatives, but sometimes that is not enough. Q is feeding him instructions in a calm, collected voice, his own fingers tapping a staccato beat as they attempt to defuse a bomb that’s protected by nearly random algorithms. Bond stands to the side and watches--a useless weapon--and sees the moment Q knows something no one else does. There is a slight pause in his typing, a near imperceptible spasm in the set of his mouth. He takes a deep breath and tells the man on the other side of the radio that the only way to defuse the large bomb--that will take out half of Mexico City--is to detonate the far smaller bomb that is there for only one purpose. The rest of Q-Branch holds it breath, horrified, and everyone can hear Schultz’s shaky breath. Only Q still types, his mouth a flat line. Typing begins again on the other side of the line as Schultz thanks M for the opportunity to serve and asks Q to see that his Zoey gets the drawings by his workstation back. Q promises. There is a short explosion. The screen in front of them goes green.

So he has not made his way to the position through his admittedly prodigious talents with technology, but rather being one of the only one with the talent who could also handle the burden. James wonders how a man of no more than 30, if that, learned to carry that burden.

*****

They are rarely allowed to conduct operations in the States, but Q is a sought-after asset. With Bond as his protection and with the blessings of Felix Leiter and the other boffins at Langley, Q makes his way to Chicago. The rain is steadily falling and the fog outside their joined hotel rooms is prodigious. Q can hardly see a thing and it has nothing to do with his glasses being across the room. It’s early enough that traffic is still building on Michigan Avenue and black umbrellas are few and far between.

Movement at the adjoining door draws his gaze. He can’t clearly see Bond’s face, but he sees that the man is half naked, a pair of cotton sleep trousers slung low on his hips. Q is hardly better, but definitely less impressive looking, he is sure. His white t-shirt is practically threadbare and his boxer briefs only emphasize his entire lack of musculature.

“Forgotten to knock, have you?” he manages, turning away from the dizzying tableau and reaching for his robe. 

“I could hear you thinking,” Bond says. “What’s on the agenda?”

Q desperately wishes the other man would put on some semblance of clothing. Even littered with scars, James Bond’s physique is not one many would shun or turn from their bed. Q is no exception, though he has more reason than most to do so. He knots the belt on his robe and slips on his glasses. He can see now that Bond’s face is rough with stubble and he’s carrying the tablet Q insisted he use.

They quickly go over the plan, Bond complaining about having to do it all from Chicago, and not remotely from headquarters, and break to get dressed. Q does not tell the other man that the reason they are here, the reason Q had not let anyone else take the assignment, had nothing to do with it needing Q’s expertise or even his influence with the CIA. Q simply didn’t know if he had it in him to send a man to his death again.

Justin Schultz’s death had weighed on him for months and a further three technicians from his department had died. All of them died with Q in their ear, giving them their final orders, taking their last requests. Perhaps, he thinks, it is not so much the deaths that weigh, but the simple fact that he has never been in that situation. He has been so far removed from the field, from even the prospect of a difficult death--one incompetent kidnapping aside--that he feels he has no right to ask others to do so.

He is afraid as they engage their target, as they try to execute Q’s plan without everything going tits up. When things do just that, his fear transforms into something hard and determined. He may not survive, but he will fight and more importantly, he will achieve their objectives.

When they survive and return to the hotel, the adrenaline crash is so profound that he comes to in the shower, freezing and trying to think of what he would tell the little voice in his ear if it asked for his last words.

*****

James struggles for hours with the need to check on Q. The man had never been on a field mission like this one and Bond remembers, with perfect clarity, Vesper’s desperate bid for normalcy, huddled in the shower and trying to recall what it had been like to be free and innocent. Q is not normal, nor innocent, but Bond still wonders.

With a grunt of annoyance, he throws himself off the bed and eases open the adjoining door and peeks around. Q is not in bed and the shower is not on. Rather, he stands at the window, sans glasses again, but also without a shirt or even pants. A white sheet, still trailing from the bed, is his only claim to modesty and even it cannot conceal the pale, light swell of his arse. His nipples are peaked and his hair is curling up again as it dries.

James allows himself only enough time for these observations before moving fully into the room. Q takes his eyes off the street only briefly. It’s still raining buckets and there have been rumblings of thunder and with the lights off, the ambient light casts the shallow plains of Q’s stomach into relief.

He had rarely seen anything as beautiful or breakable. He’s drawn to the cracks and he knows that is something the psych people despair of. But Q is also strong and stoic and so very smart. He is Vesper’s acidic wit and involuntary vulnerability. He is Camille’s determination and naivety. He is M’s unflappability and disapproval. And for all that he reminds Bond of these women who have been so much a part of him, he is also uniquely… Q.

He takes a chance and positions himself behind Q. Their eyes could meet in the glass, but they don’t. James keeps his eyes down, sliding one hand to cup a bony hip, pausing for permission. He waits a full five seconds before the hand not holding the sheet alights on his own, pressing it forward until it is cupping the barely-there paunch of Q’s abdomen. 

James closes his eyes and leans forward, kissing a shoulder, dragging his lips along Q’s shoulder blade before they hit the knob of his spine. Q’s breath shudders.

“So, this is why you Double-Ohs have such a reputation,” Q shakes out, a knowing note in his voice.

“Almost dying tends to do this to a person, yes,” James mumbles, his nose happily buried in unruly curls that smell like sweat and smog.

“Seems a waste not to take advantage then,” Q says, turning in Bond’s arms and dropping the sheet in favor of slinging his arms around the Double-oh’s neck. His lips are dry on James’, but his tongue immediately snakes out and James has no compunction about sucking it into his mouth and caressing it with his own. His hand follows the lean, knobbly line of Q’s back to his arse, his whole hand practically spanning it. He brazenly curls his middle finger so that it presses near Q’s opening and is rewarded with a involuntary thrust and a breathy grunt.

While the impulse to press Q against the window is tempting, he knows the other man will be horrified when he comes back to himself, so he maneuvers their still-entwined bodies to the already wrecked bed. He picks Q up by the hips and practically throws him onto the bed, crawling after him. This brings Q somewhat back to himself, as he props himself on his elbow and runs a hand down James’ chest with an expression of awed lust. James watches him, watches the hand, and doesn’t stop the younger man when he pulls at the drawstring on his trousers and tries to work them off his hips. James obliges him, pulling them off and kicking them to the floor. Q sucks in a thoroughly flattering gasp when he sees James fully nude and he smiles, lowering himself so that they are chest to chest, groins nestled together. Q drops back and they are kissing again. 

James loves kissing and he’s delighted to discover that Q has absolutely no issue with that. His hands are restless, unable to settle on James’ back or arse, but his kiss is slow and deep. Even in the chill of the grey-lit hotel room, James is already sweating. His encounters with men are few and far between and they’ve rarely been this mutual, this desired. Even if Q is only responding to the adrenaline crash, James intends to take him apart, to thoroughly ruin him for all decent men. 

No one has ever accused James of being a decent man.

*****

When Q wakes, it is with the knowledge that he has just enjoyed the hardest sleep of his short life. He is generally a light sleeper, always listening for the beep of the phone, the trill of a program finishing on the computer, the pitter pattering feet of whatever assassin has decided to inadvisably mess with Q-Branch. The adrenaline crash and hard fucking that followed had left him completely taken out of himself. He can feel Bond at his back, a piss-hard erection digging into his back, and he rolls to sit on the edge of the bed.

Bond doesn’t even stir, probably used to being left behind--or doing the leaving behind--enough that it doesn’t concern him. Q stares over his shoulder at the length of his powerful legs under the sheets and blushes as he remembers the night before. He had come at least three times: one with his cock down Bond’s throat, one whilst skewered on his blunt fingers, and one while being so thoroughly fucked he made noises that had the upstairs' neighbors banging on the floor. The last has him blushing and over to his laptop in seconds to take care of their bill for the night. Had their roles been reversed he’d have simply racked up an enormous room service bill on their credit card.

He gets side-tracked into actual work and is entirely unaware of life or movement for the next twenty minutes or so, until Bond is pulling him up and backing him against the desk. It is then he realizes he is still naked.

“I was dreaming about trains, that noise they make, the rhythm. I take it I have your typing to thank?”

“I wouldn’t presume to guess,” Q says. “Have you let the piss out of that thing then?”

Bond’s mouth curls, “First thing. You done trying to prove you’re as willing to die for Queen and country as the next agent?”

Q doesn’t let his mouth drop open, but only just, and drops his head. Bond cups the nape of his neck and gently guides it back up. Q reluctantly meets his eyes and sees only understanding.

“I could be.”

“You are,” he says, before pulling Q back to bed.


End file.
